The McKinley House

In 2000, I bought my first house. It was a disaster; a bona-fide biohazard. I got a lot of “you must be crazy” looks. It was so filthy, it really shouldn’t have been habited, but it was. A whole family of five lived there, including a young couple and their child, who slept in the attic, accessible only by a foldout attic ladder.

The first task was to tear out the carpet. To my surprise, layers of carpet had been installed without removing the underlying layers as thought they were installing roofing, not the surface you walk on—live on. Under multiple layers of carpet was carpet pad. Once that was removed there were patches that looked like concrete, from what I imagined as a slurry of Coca-Cola spilled onto the dirt that had burrowed through the fibers. Most of the floor just looked like a volleyball court from decades of Central Oregon's sandy soil grinding its way to the first impenetrable surface.

But, once the flooring was ripped out and swept out, I lived in it while I renovated it, sleeping on an Army cot next to my table saw. I moved walls. I rewired the entire house. I supported the floors with new pier-pads and posts. I replaced the bathroom and renovated the kitchen. Lights were added everywhere. It went from four circuits to 24 (should they be needed); from 110 to 220amp service. All windows and doors were replaced, except the grid-windows in the front. Every interior surface was replaced. And I did almost all of it myself. Though family and friends threw in at critical times. Thanks Dad. Thanks Austin. Thanks Mom. Thanks Dave. Thanks John.

What started as a biohazard became home and it was great fun. It was also an investment and I wasn’t overly sentimental about it. But there was one great surprise: the aesthetics of peeling away the old. I expected to enjoy making the old new again; I always have. But seeing the beauty of layer after layer, year after year, being peeled away—that was was a big surprise.

Where I had been photographing the project for posterity (and to document wiring details, and such) my photographs turned to expression—a documentary and history of the house. And it was rich with interesting compositions, colors, textures, and light.

There are close to two hundred documenting the project. Most of them functional, but thirty or forty, surprisingly beautiful. I will post them in a slide show as soon as I learn how to do it. If you know how, I’d appreciate your advice.